I like predictable tv shows
Colombo always followed the perpetrator
In Death in Paradise the inspectors solve every case
Someone on the stand confesses in every Perry Mason episode
Harvey Korman always falls on his butt on the Carol Burnett Show
No matter who the Equalizer is, he or she fixes everything for a good guy
John Wayne always beat the bad guys in every movie
Until The Cowboys when he was murdered by Bruce Dern
I never liked Bruce Dern after that
And I never watched another John Wayne movie
I like predictable movies too
Someone would rather not speak the truth
After weighing the cons and pros
They're exquisite egoists
Someone dares to bet the causes
Inspectors weighing the pros and cons
Restrict viewers or ban the speakers
Since then, no truth matters
Only compliment words or praise heard
This is how a law of thermodynamics
Works for all communities
If a system dissipates and disintegrates
As it loosened balance, so does
An interest- congested community cease
The inveracity beauty is on the surface
While leaving bugs inside numerous
The Grocer and Dreamer
The local grocer calls his shop
The best supermarket in town
Although his shop is small
He has big dreams, sells jam
tinned beans, bananas, lemon
and chocolate cakes
He also sells local wine made
on a plot, run by his brother
In the morning, he has fresh
From a bakery that has few
Customers as it sells real bread
That is not packed in plastic
A big supermarket nearby
Will open soon
Our grocer, harassed by health
Inspectors every week sold
The shop to the new supermarket
They promptly closed his shop
The grocer who had big dreams
Bought a van and sells groceries
In the countryside
No estate should be able to turn away health inspectors,
No estate should be able to turn away ambulances,
while bleeding internally,
No estate should need to employ so many muckrakers,
or bush lawyers.
No estate should hold so many water rights,
if they pour cold water over journalists,
who want to investigate,
No estate should hold so many gun licenses,
until shooting oneself in the foot is no longer endemic,
No estate should be given awards for mediocrity,
No estate should have license to print money,
to pay for influence.
No estate should be bereft of microscopes,
or access to an eye specialist.
No estate should hold so many contracts out of state,
to stifle competition,
No estate can survive without bread and butter
or an understanding that no freedom is absolute.
No estate can survive when it no longer sees the need to spellcheck,
and uses words covered in sauces past their use by date,
No society can survive when it has a fourth estate,
that no longer pays heed to the edicts of,
Walter Cronkite or his ilk.
("Eye of God", 2018, original encaustic mixed media - wax, pigments and mirror)
Clearly God Grades On a Curve
After several hours of working hard
finishing up siding a small sheep shed,
before winter comes and the cold winds blow,
I lay in the warm bath, seduced
to the edge of sleep by two sips of beer.
I’m roused by a rousing motivational speech
delivered apparently to all the minions
within my body-mind.
And like Whitman, it seems the multitudes
I contain are vast.
Workers, common laborers and skilled,
designers, engineers, and inspectors,
critics, loafers, the assorted homeless bums
and burnt out hippies fried by one too many trips
to who knows where, seeking who knows what…
Anyway, the speech I remember,
the part that woke me,
was the simple affirmation
that they’d all earned,
“An A for effort!”
And laying there half submerged
nursing my sore joints and tired limbs,
I realized with the calm assurance
of the mystic, that clearly
God grades on a curve.
(9/9/23)
Searching the country, the inspectors interviewed
every single inhabitant, from lithe ballerinas to lumbering dudes ...
Out of myriad possibilities, they found only two
on whom everyone agreed ~ THEY would never do!
God needs your faith
otherwise he disappears behind your eyes
and you both go blind.
There are ancient inspectors looking into
your kidneys and liver.
Their horn-rimmed glasses
peer from under tortoise shells,
they search for any useful ingredients.
The science of looking is very old.
God awakes in a dream of you;
immediately begins
to stuff your hollowness
with blood and guts.
The soil x-rays you,
the sky photoshops your mind
erasing the smudged indecency
of any brain-damaged parts.
Some say this and some say that;
warm breath and cold air
blows through your burning straw.
Both the wise and the simple
allow themselves to be rocked gently
upon their own cupped hands.
This House
David J Walker
This house means something to me
Its pride in its shelterings from the
Batterings
And elements
I could not survive
On my own
This house means something to me
I’ve given it everything its asked for
That I can afford
Like the mystery of love
And children
And the scrutiny of neighbors
And city inspectors
This house means something to me
For which I have paid dearly
Demanding
Nearly every penny I could earn
Sometimes I yearn
For the days when
Father paid for everything
And Mother made
Everything else
This house means something to me
We’ve settled into a
comfortable
Lifestyle of unintentional
Neglect
This house means something to me
I am
Updating the frame
That remains
The goal of the
Coming seasons
But is there really a reason
To look newer in
And older
Neighborhood
This one had too many chopped up tiny little rooms.
The next one had no escape from the upstairs windows
And they were fourteen feet off the ground
I wanted old
My husband would only look at new
I wanted woodwork
My husband wanted easy
I wanted an enormous yard
My husband wanted no grass to mow
He would have liked a concrete yard
And he would not have painted it green either.
After realizing we could not agree on any house
We had seen,
We started listing all the things we wanted.
The only way to get a house like this was to build it
So now the hunt for land was on.
And blueprints to purchase
And inspectors to consult
And contractors we could trust.
A whole new plan
But it worked for us.
We now have our dream house.
And I have my dream yard.
Score!
We live in a time where people crave for reward
Always serving with their eyes wide open
Or you can better say, 'eye service'
And that's just because the inspectors or soldiers may chase
It doesn't matter whether it is allowee or money
Secret service is the service of the clarion call
Not because of what we want to get
But cause of what we have to give
As corpers, there are certain things we need to shun
No wonder they will always shout, 'COPER SHUN!'
Moreover, any reward gotten here will end up in màmi
Which could be the camp màmi, PPA màmi, or even our retirement màmi
All these may look like a drill
But remember; life in itself is a drill
So, we just need to run
In fact, double up our race
I imagine my ancestors having once lived in parts of Europe
having the ambition to sail to America with prayers and some luck
leaving behind the potato famine blight that disrupted their Irish lives
with their small suitcases arriving here as husband and wife
Their Irish brogue was probably endearing and very thick
as the Ellis Island inspectors inspected all the "Micks"
more than likely they had to talk slow so Americans could understand
gradually assimilating and talking like folks from Long Island
I wonder how it felt when they sailed into New York harbor
more than likely they were nervous and excited to their Irish cores
walking around the city they took in sights they never saw before
a fresh new start...bringing their Irish heritage from distant shores.
6-18-18
Headlines of irony in life…
Human satire—cuts like a knife.
The unsinkable ship, that sinks.
Surrounded by peeps, yet alone.
Priests who ‘prey’—yet sins they atone.
Pastor fights alcohol, but drinks.
Tax czar who cheats on his taxes.
Animal fans—hunt to relax.
Abortion kills—with nods and winks.
Lifeguard fearing water—lauds land.
‘Football’—a game played with the hands.
Oedipus—breaks riddle and Sphinx.
Headlines of irony in life...
“Women”—they may now take a wife.
The steakhouse owned by a vegan.
Pedophile daycare directors.
Homeless real estate inspectors.
WAR—‘politics’ by other means.
Fighting drugs, while promoting booze.
Mutual consent—the new ruse.
Prolonged charity squelches teens.
Green tinted speckles on bluefish.
Hitler’s Grandfather was Jewish!
Men—affectionately called ‘queens.’
In life, every nook and cranny,
Holds the next ‘headline irony.’
Good, bad, or sad—it’s Uncanny!
June 2, 2018
Written for Connor Lotts' poetry contest entitled, "Hutinashro - My First Contest Poetry Contest"
If I can laugh
I've found the path
I wish to tread
As in my head
This smile has lead
To happy line's
Upon my face
That can be traced
To all my mate's
That have raised my spirits
When all around
Im bound to find
Tax collectors
And fun inspectors
Wanting to ruin my pleasant day
As they themselves do not know
That what they stop
Will set them free
From being what
They hate to be
On And Off The Bridge
A shadow takes hold on the bridge at break of day
This unidentified contributory figure adds to the mystery
And yes, misery to all
Neither creature, man nor beast is permitted on this expanse
One moment please….
While the man clings on to his finale memory and step
And not much more…. Let’s reflect….
Perhaps the law and signage on the bridge are flawed
Reading; “Trespassing and Suicide Jumps are Illegal”
It should say; “Please Don’t Jump, Birdies Will Be Sad
And Who Will Pay The Taxes?”
The figure drops anyway
The draw of day collapses….tickets issued….good luck collecting
Three inspectors must render an account, a report, a reason why
Mundane and miscellaneous work remains
A new notice under the bridge erected
“Watch out for falling people or debris”
“Your Tax dollars At Work”
Signed: “Land of the free”
© Ben Burton Feb 5, 2014
I view beauty with desire
But am seen through abstract eyes
Which begats a mystery
For I don't try to be that kind
The shattered pieces in my wake
As tea leaves wither in the brine
Leave only scarves to pacify
The punctured seal can't be revised
No posturing through symphonies
With trebled horns, but for the one
That is and was and shall remain
While hearts still beat and rivers run
Should I not come before I go
Indulgence can't be quantified
For every itch that is not scratched
Becomes a casualty to time
Yet, with decorum I imbibe
Without deception at the core
Or abrogation of the vow
Unto myself, no spawn of spore
And without mirror to reflect
The bounder from a boundless shore
Inspectors at the terminals
Will fruitlessly try to record
But DNA will not impeach
The gene which flawlessly imparts
Abilities to cherry-pick
The naivete of hopeful marks
So, to ourselves we need be true
From courtesan to bon vivant
And though restraint may be pursued
It will not kill the will to want
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